


Soft Boot (Part 5)

by mother_finch



Series: Soft Boot [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 17:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17492432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: The team is reunited after years apart in a fight for freedom, and Root and John Reese struggle to assimilate back into the world they'd left behind. Sameen Shaw tries to help Root fill in the gaps of everything she's missed, but when the topic of their complicated situation arises, she must grapple with what she feels, as well as Root's devastating secret.





	Soft Boot (Part 5)

**{Searching for Assets...**

**> Asset: Jeremy Lambert**

**> > Likelihood of Survival: 13%**

**> New Admin Detected**

**> > Admin: Claire Mahoney**

**...Tracing Threats...**

**> Floor 3**

**> > Threats detected: 3**

**> Floor 2**

**> > Threats detected: 5**

**...Sending Backup to Location...**

**> Delta Facility**

**> > Eastwood, Syracuse NY**

**> >> October 16, 2018, 19:05 EST**

**...Backup ETA: 19:23}**

"What do you mean, you wish I hadn't come?" Shaw asks, scanning Root's face for some context. Usually, Shaw can get a sensible read on Root, but there's only an overwhelming sadness. Root turns her face away, eyes avoiding Shaw's. Shaw brings her hand to Root's face, turning her back to face her. "There's no way I was going to leave you here."

"The one problem with this being real is that actions have consequences."

Shaw doesn't understand. Root rolls her jaw in a circle, eyes growing glassy. She licks her lips.

"I have a choice to make, either you or the Machine. But if I choose you, and I take down the Machine, they're just going to kill you anyway. And then I'll have lost you both. After all of this."

Dawning registers in Shaw's mind, and she weighs the options before her. Takes a breath.

"And if you choose the Machine?"

"I'm not killing you," Root snaps. The force in her words catches Shaw off guard. "I'd rather take the third option."

"What's the third option?"

Root turns her head, gaze drifting to the far table. Her eyes come back to Shaw. "Do what you always did when it was time to say goodbye."

"No," Shaw says, shaking her head. She brings her hands to each of Root's arms, holding onto her tight. She doesn't even want to fathom the idea of the third option, let alone let go of Root and give her a chance to make the decision anyway. "That is not happening. I didn't come all this way just to lose you for good."

"I don't see a viable fourth option appearing out of thin air, do you?" Root asks.

The door Root came through crashes open, John Reese looking worse for wear with blood splattered across his hospital scrubs and dripping down his face. The secondary door opens, and Lambert fires a gun, hitting John in the shoulder. He's thrown back, but not before he fires three rounds square into Lambert's chest. Lambert's eyes slide down to his chest, then roll back, body dropping to the floor.

Root's eyes widen.

"I take it back."

"When we get out of here," John grunts, spitting out a mouthful of blood and sweat, "I'm gonna kill you for locking me in that closet." John's eyes slide over to Shaw, and a smile grows loosely on his lips.

"Look who finally showed up."

"You know, Reese, I'd say it's good to see you, but you look like crap."

"Trust me, it feels worse than it looks." He groans, holding his shoulder as blood spills down his arm. Root tears off a strip of Lambert's shirt, hurrying to John and tying it tightly across his gunshot. Instantly, blood seeps through. She tugs it a little tighter, and he winces.

"You okay?" he asks, voice soft. She looks up to him, smile poking through.

She nods.

A alarm blares, all the lights going out as a red emergency light spins from the ceiling. Sharing a look, John and Root start back toward Shaw. She grabs's Lambert's gun, then recollects the weapons she dropped on the floor.

"That's quite the arsenal," John says, a lightness to his voice like it's Christmas. Shaw smirks in the red light.

"Think you can handle it?"

He grabs a grenade launcher, looking at it with a purely devilish grin. "I know I can."

Shaw kneels before the pile of weapons, rummaging through her duffel bag. She pulls out a Dual Glock 26 and a Heckler & Kotch USP Compact, handing them both to Root. Grabbing her two favorite weapons of choice from Shaw, Root can't help the toothy smile that overtakes her.

"A rescue mission  _and_  a love letter?" Root asks, cocking her weapons. Shaw rolls her eyes, but a smile slides onto her lips. Picking up her assault rifle, Shaw sets her jaw, the heat of the battle flooding her with a rush.

Shaw taps at her ear, bringing her earwig back to life. The mayhem tearing through floor two reignites, amidst Harper's agitation.

"Shaw? Hello? Guys, I think we lost her."

"Not quite," she responds. Harper scoffs.

" _Really_? You couldn't answer the last ten  _thousand_  times I called your name?"

Shaw leads Root and John through the maze of computer servers and incapacitated agents she left in her wake on the way up.

"I was a little pre-occupied." Turning her head, her gaze falls on Root, and her chest feels a little lighter.  _She's alive_. "I got John and Root."

"How?" Fusco demands with a grunt. "I thought we were all doing this rescue mission together?"

"I heard some chatter about the third floor through one of the radio coms," Shaw answers, pushing through the server room door and coming to a service hall filled with air conditioning units, the vents snaking like a network of veins into the server room. "And last time I checked, climbing through vents isn't your specialty."

They pass by an open grate in the floor, vent dented from where Shaw kicked it out, and she holds her weapon at the ready. Voices approach from around the corner. Two agents turn to face them, grabbing their guns from their holsters. Then, seeing the automatic, the grenade launcher, and the two handguns pointed their way, they lift their arms in surrender.

"Smart move," John says, starting forward. The agents look ready to put their hands behind their backs, but John has nothing to cuff them with. Instead, he cracks each of them with the butt of the launcher, and they crumple in a heap on the floor. Root and Shaw share a look, Root's eyes alight and communicating a thousand silent words. Shaw can't help but look her over, this small moment of normalcy more than she could have ever prayed for.

Checking the corner for more agents, the group is faced with an elevator. Shaw taps the down button, but it hisses back at her with a red error code, demanding a security badge. Root slips one from her back pocket as Shaw punches the button with mounting anger.

"Can you rewire this some how?" Shaw asks her.

Root swipes the badge, humorous grin tugging on her face despite her best efforts at keeping collected. The light turns green.

"Platinum membership," Root jokes as the doors open. Shaw rolls her eyes, stepping in. She hits floor two, and the doors close behind the trio.

"We're headed to you. What part of the floor are you on?"

"In front of the elevator lobby," Harold answers, voice choppy as he dodges operatives.

"Get to the sides," Shaw instructs. John presses himself to the far wall, and Shaw pulls Root in, tucking her to the wall and pressing herself in close behind. She tries with full strength to ignore Root's devilish smirk, already hearing Root’s overt come-on. _Come on_ , Shaw tells herself. _Focus._

"When you hear the elevator, duck into the closest hiding place."

"Why?" Joey asks. "What's in the elevator?"

The light of the second floor button goes out, doors sliding open. At first, the elevator looks completely empty, as if a ghost took a ride into battle. Shaw nods at John.

Stepping into the center of the doorway, John fires off a stun grenade. It lands amidst the operatives, and before they have time to run, it explodes with a flash of white. Smoke unfurls, bathing the entire room in gray, red light flashing through like bolts of lightning. John steps from the elevator, tossing the grenade launcher to the ground as he levels his firearm, disappearing into the smoke.

"Not that I'm  _not_  enjoying this," Root coos close to Shaw's ear, "but I think this is our stop."

Shaw doesn't move at first, knowing the danger that lies in wait on this floor. She's never doubted Root's abilities, she's proven lethal on more than one occasion; nonetheless, Shaw is apprehensive to throw her into a firefight. The risk factor of Root being killed this close to the end is something Shaw doesn't want to come to terms with.

Keeping one hand pressed to the small of Root's back, Shaw shifts herself against the front of the elevator, arm swinging to the open doorway as she fires off a few rounds into a nearby operative. Root slides away from her protective stance easily-- while Shaw had hoped she would stay put, she wasn't going to force her-- and Root slips behind Shaw easily, firing over Shaw's shoulder. Stepping past Shaw into the lobby, an invigorated grin is steadfast on Root's face.

"It's been a long time since I've had this much fun," she says to Shaw as she follows Root into the darkness. Harper and her team reemerge from the shadows, grabbing operatives left and right, subduing them with chokeholds. Fusco shoots one in the thigh, but another grabs him from behind. John grabs him, fingers in the man's eyes and pressing deeper. The man yelps, and John pins him to the wall, forearm at his throat. He goes limp, and John drops him.

"I haven't even been here for two minutes and I'm already keeping you out of trouble?" John asks Fusco, but he has no answer. His eyes are drawn wide, mouth hanging just so. He's seeing a ghost in the dissipating smoke, but the apparition is a more than welcome one.

"Might want to close your mouth, Lionel," John says with a smirk, turning back into the swirling throng. Fusco complies, then snaps to.

Root and Shaw make their way toward the rest of the team with the ease of a well-oiled machine. Root keeps to Shaw's right, firing her weapons in pattern with Shaw, the two ducking back and starting forward with near-perfect synchronization. Shaw puts out her hand, keeping Root from stepping forward as an agent is thrown in front of them, landing on the ground with a thud. Root grabs Shaw's extended shoulder, pushing her into a crouch and shooting an operative over her head. They continue on, the last few agents dropping like flies.

With a quiet calm settling over the room for the moment, Harper, Joey, and Logan come forward. Joey gives John's hand a hearty shake, and Harper offers him a wink. Root looks at them curiously.

"Who are they?" she asks Shaw, eyes canvasing the trio.

"Concerned third party," Logan replies. John chuckles.

"You're the voice," Harper says, pointing to Root with a sense of disbelief. "You're  _Root_."

"Didn't realize I was so popular," Root replies smoothly, but Shaw can see the confusion crossing her eyes.

"They're the Machine's B-Team."

"Woah, now," the trio say, putting up their hands and giving Shaw an array of looks.

"We're no  _B-Team_ ," Joey says, and Shaw cracks a grin.

Her smile drops away as the barrel of a gun glimmers in the red light just behind John's head. Her eyes widen, time slowing, mouth parting to yell his name. To tell him to duck-- something.

_Bang!_

It's not the sound Shaw was expecting. Instead of a gunshot, it's the hard hit of metal on bone, and the gun falls away. Everyone turns, seeing the last operative drop like a stone. Behind him, Harold has a handgun raised, holding it like a bludgeon. It's still raised over his head, his wide eyes pulling away from the man and coming to John. His face remains entirely neutral, as if not believing it at first.

He extends his hand, holding the gun out to John.

"I'm still not a fan," Harold tells him, the quiver of a smile pulling at his mouth. John's eyes soften, a shocked grin on his lips as he puts his hand out to take the weapon. Then, he wraps his hand around it wide, fingers grabbing Harold's wrist in the process, and he pulls him into a hug. Harold jolts forward, shock in his eyes melting into relief, a full smile finally overtaking him. He gives John's shoulder a light pat.

"It's good to have you back," he says lightly. John holds a little tighter.

"Good to be back."

And just like that, John pulls away, slipping the weapon from Harold's hand and returning to normal composure. The lightness in Harold's face still remains. His eyes find Root, and he raises a brow.

"Hi, Harry," Root greets, tilting her head toward him as her hair spills over her shoulder. He smiles with a disbelieving exhale, coming forward and giving her a hug. She's surprised, the emotion flashing openly in her eyes as she raises her arms to return it. She feels his breath at her ear, and he pulls away, holding her at the elbows. His eyes search hers, then his smile drops.

"Did you hear me?" he asks, and she blinks.

"Hear you what?"

"What I said."

She furrows her brow, then smiles.

"Try the other ear," she says, and some of his worry washes away.

"I said it's good to see you again."

"Listen, guys," Harper interrupts. "While it's nice you are all catching up, we're still in enemy territory. More of them are going to be here any minute."

"Then I guess we should make ourselves scarce," Shaw replies, eyes at John. Again, he nods.

"Come on," he says to Harold, tugging at his collar. Harold falls away from Root, trailing just behind John as the group starts picking their way back to the exit.

Shaw looks at Root, giving her arm a nudge.

"You ready to get out of here?" she asks. Root cocks a brow.

"Absolutely."

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[Alias in Progress...**

**> Brighton Beach Complex**

**> > 8th Brighton St. Police Surveillance**

**> >> 09:38, 10/19/2018**

**...Alias Confirmed: Root|Mary Keller]**

Shaw scrubs at the dried blood on the cracked linoleum tiles, the bleach solution in her wash bucket turning a pale pink. She's almost done cleaning the place, the blown-to-hell kitchen is all that's left. Pushing her hair from her forehead with the back of a gloved hand, she continues cleaning the floor. It's therapeutic, in a way.

_Not that I need therapy_ , Shaw adds. Maybe therapeutic isn't quite the word.  _Cathartic, perhaps?_ She doesn't know, but she doesn't want to dwell on it. She wants to clean, knowing if she doesn't the rage will return.

Rage at the Machine.  _How could She?_  Shaw thinks to herself, scrubbing harder.  _How could She know Root was in danger all those years ago and not say something?_

But the Machine  _did_  say something, just not to her.  _Not to the team that could have done something to save her._ No, instead of coming to Shaw with Root's number, the Machine enlisted Harper's group. A group that had no idea how to find Root, when everyone in Shaw's vicinity knows exactly who Root is.  _Hell, John even had her number once before_ , she tells herself, beginning to scrub what's left of the cheaply made cabinets.  _We could have helped. We could have kept this from happening._

She can't help but wonder if there was a bigger reason as to why the Machine kept the secret. If knowing Root was in danger would have changed the outcome of the fight for the worse. She shakes her head.  _Whatever Her reason, She was wrong._

_And on top of being wrong, She never bothered to tell me about Root's number at all._  That seems to sting just as strong. The Machine had been in her ear for six months before she learned that Root wasn't in her grave, and then kept in touch with her for nearly a year and a half after that.  _How could the topic never come up?_

The truth had to be that the Machine didn't  _want_  it to come up. She didn't want to tell Shaw. Why, she's unsure. But no explanation the Machine could give would ever be enough.  _Not that I'll be talking to her again anyway_ , Shaw mutters to herself, the pink water in her bucket turning gray with sludge.  _When's the last time anyone bothered to clean this place?_  she wonders. It had to be long before Elias took it over. Maybe it was never cleaned at all.

_With Root back, the Machine will return to business as always._  Talking in Root's ear and keeping everyone in the dark.  _Exactly what she's so good at_. Shaw wonders if Root knew her number was up. If the Machine could even be bothered to tell her. To let her know she was in danger.

Root stirs from the mattress tucked at the back corner of the crumbling apartment. Shaw had done everything she could to sterilize the majority of the abandoned space while Harold and John took her to visit an old friend. Some surgeon she knew that could get her ear back to working order. Shaw had wanted to tag along, but knew between Root's gunshot wound, the surgery to her ear, and the overall maltreatment she'd faced at the hands of Samaritan, a sterile healing environment was vital.

Root groans, tossing in the bed, and Shaw pulls her gloves off. She stands as Root begins kicking away the covers. She tosses her head to the right. Left. Right.

"Hey," Shaw starts slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. She gives Root's shoulder s small shake. "Hey, Root."

Root's eyes burst open, the pain of the dream still clouding them as she jumps to a sitting position. Shaw looks her over, listening to Root's breaths as they start to stabilize. Root blinks a few times, the last traces of the dream dissipating, and she turns to Shaw.

"Was I..."

"Yeah."

Root bites her bottom lip.

"Sorry."

"Don't be," Shaw responds, turning to the side table. Shaw knows the wreckage that comes with what Root's been through. Knows it'll take time. Knows she'll be there to help however she can, just like Root was for her. She grabs fresh gauze and bandages from the front compartment of the table, then swipes the disinfectant off the floor. "Let me see your dressings."

Root lifts her shirt just enough to show the white strips of gauze lining her side. A flower of red greets them, the wound unable to heal with Root's constant tossing and turning.

"Nice place," Root says with a smile as Shaw peels away the dressings carefully. She blots disinfectant to it and re-wraps it.

"Yours, actually," Shaw responds, and Root drops her shirt, letting it fall back at her side. "I got my own across the hall, but this sure beats it."

"Wanna move in?"

Shaw's ears burn at the response, lips pressed tight with a warning glare. Root takes it with glowing eyes, finding herself far more clever than Shaw does.

Rolling her jaw, Shaw shakes her head. Then, she slides closer, turning Root's head gently to take a look at her ears. The right isn't so bad, just a small cut where the simulation chip was removed. She leaves it be. She turns Root the the left.

Tilting Root's head to the side, Shaw brushes Root's dark curls away. She pulls at the bandage, trying her best to be gentle. Still, Root winces.

"Too painful?" Shaw asks. Root shakes her head, and Shaw starts once more. "Has She said anything to you yet?"

"Welcome back," Root says with a soft chuckle. Her eyes flitter to her hands, and she swallows hard. "She asked about you."

"I'm not the one who was held captive."

"She said thanks for keeping Her company."

Shaw wants nothing to do with the Machine's pleasantries. Her attempts at kindness. They spend a moment in the quiet.

"Did She sound how you expected?" Root asks. "The patchwork tones are a little weird at first, but after a while, they grow on you."

Shaw applies the new dressings, then stashes the supplies away. She takes a minute, not sure how to answer.

"She didn't sound like that for me."

Root turns to her, raising a brow curiously. She shifts on the mattress, coming to sit at Shaw's side. Shaw studies her, trying to tell if Root's okay. Some moments, she seems completely herself.  _Like she was never gone._  Other moments, she seems completely foreign.  _Like she never came back._

"What did She sound like?"

Shaw looks at Root's hands as she folds them in her lap, black nails resting against her gray sweatpants. She brings her eyes to Root's.

"Like you."

Root's eyes swim with surprise. Her shoulders shift.

"You were Her voice before; She said it felt right."

Root's lips part with the ghost of a smile, looking past Shaw with a glint in her eye. She shakes her head with a silent chuckle.

"She forgot to mention that."

"Yeah," Shaw replies, a sour note in her voice. "She seems to be doing that a lot."

She wants to ask Root if she knew. The words sit in her mouth like lead.  _I can't,_  she tells herself, suddenly unable to handle Root's eye's on hers. She looks away, studying Root's hands, then her own.  _She's just getting herself back together. If she didn't know the Machine knew what was in store, it'll only hurt her._  Shaw's gaze returns to Root, settling just below her eyes, still not able to meet them.  _She's been hurt enough already._

"I'm gonna finish cleaning up," Shaw mutters, beginning to stand. Root grabs her hand, keeping her close.

"You've been cleaning for days."

"This place wasn't exactly move-in ready," Shaw answers, looking at the sponge and bucket across the room. She wasn't wired for this, for the emotions swirling inside. They seem incomplete, like fragments of phrases surfacing out of radio static, only to sink under before she can fully make out the words.

Root keeps her hand on Shaw's, though her grip is loose. Not making her stay, only asking her to. After another moment left in limbo, Shaw returns to Root's side, folding her finger's around Root's and laying their hands on her leg. Root scoots closer, resting her head on Shaw's shoulder. Shaw's muscles stiffen.

"You can shrug me off if you want," Root says, a devious play in her voice. She looks up at Shaw with doe eyes, putting on a pout. "But just keep in mind how I was  _shot_  this week."

Shaw rolls her eyes, muscles relaxing as Root gets comfortable.

"You were  _grazed_ ," she corrects. "You can barely consider that shot."

Root chuckles quietly, looking at their hands. She runs her thumb back and forth along Shaw's knuckles.

"Was there anything else the Machine conveniently forgot to tell me?" Root asks, the bubbly nature in her words beginning to dwindle.  _It's happening_ , Shaw thinks.  _She's slipping._  She holds Root's hand a little tighter, as if doing so will keep Root from fading. "I've been out of the loop for a while."

There are a million little things Root has missed; or rather, things Shaw has done alone wishing Root had been around for: the numbers, the traveling, the saving the world. Things that should have happened but never did: the inconveniently timed foreplay, the last-minute saves, the shared looks when they're both thinking the same thing. Shaw never quite realized how much room Root took up inside until there was nothing more than the vacant space she left behind.

One memory sticks out a little more in Shaw's memory than the others. That day on the subway, with Jeffrey Blackwell, a 6.5 round rolling between her fingers. She'd almost killed him then, right on that train cart. But the Machine was dying, if not only to be resurrected. She had parting words. Words from Root.  _Not quite from her, but things she felt._  Things Shaw had internalized, memorized, and kept with her everyday. Words she still thinks about right now, sitting here with Root. Considering Root's behavior, Shaw doesn't think the Machine said anything. Shaw herself isn't quite sure how to bring it up.

_I guess there's no use in overthinking it._

"Did She tell you about what happened with the ICE-9 virus?"

Root shakes her head. Shaw sighs.

"It was taking out Samaritan-- or, at least we thought-- but it was killing Her, too."

"But it didn't," Root says, lifting her head. "She's still here."

"I know." Shaw looks Root over, then juts her head to the side, beckoning her to return. With a smile, Root rests her head back on Shaw's shoulder. Shaw looks straight ahead at the bucket of murky water, not sure where else to rest her gaze.

"She said something to me before shutting down. She was relaying a message about you." Shaw clenches her teeth, the words begging to crawl back down her throat.  _This really, really isn't my sort of thing._ But she needs to get it off her chest. They have to be back on the same playing field.

She takes a breath.

"She said--"

There's a knock on the door, and without waiting for a response, John pushes it open. His eyes fall on the two as Harold comes to a stop behind him.

"I told you to knock," Harold mumbles bellow his breath.

"I did," John replies, tone matching his. "You didn't say I had to wait for an invitation inside."

"What are you boys up to?" Root asks, and Shaw can feel Root's cheek tugging up with a dopey smile. Enjoying being caught in the moment, her head on Shaw's shoulder and fingers intertwined. Shaw's ears begin to warm, but she doesn't push Root away.

"We've got a new number," John says, stepping into the apartment. He looks around. "Why did  _you_  get the clean room?" he asks Shaw, and she narrows her eyes.

"Why does everyone think it just came this way?"

"Who's the number?" Root asks, giving Shaw a playful nudge. Shaw rolls her eyes.

"Detective Fusco," Harold answers. His attention shifts to John, an air of disgust on his face. "You didn't clean the apartment?"

"Why would I?"

"I left cleaning supplies on the kitchen table."

"They could have been left there by the last tenants."

Harold groans, shaking his head.

"What did Fusco get himself into this time?" Shaw asks, bringing their attention back to the issue.

"He went to Syracuse," Harold responds. "Apparently, not carefully enough. Samaritan must have realized our connection."

"Great," Shaw grumbles, slipping away from Root and standing. She grabs her gun off the table. "Now, on top of living next door to all of  _you_ , I'm going to have to listen to him  _too_?"

"I think it's a small price to pay for all he's helped us with," Harold answers in a warning tone. Shaw purses her lips.

"Where are we headed?"

"Precinct," John tells her, gesturing for her to get moving. "He should be at work."

"Give me a minute to get dressed and I'll be out."

Everyone stops.

Shaw hears the bed groan behind her, and turns to see Root stretching the sleep from her limbs. She winces, hand coming to her side, but she quickly recovers, not wanting them to know she's in pain.

"You have any spare clothes for me, Sweetie?"

"Doesn't matter if I do," Shaw shoots back. "You're staying here."

Root's smile fades, darkness settling into her eyes.

"I'm going."

"You need rest."

"I need fresh air."

Shaw wants to keep arguing until she wins. She thinks of all the time Root spent without ever seeing the outside. She thinks of all the times the team kept her locked up. She locks her jaw, irritation at a fever pitch.

"Your stuff's in the duffel bag," Shaw mutters, and Root returns to high spirits, sauntering to the bag with a spring in her step. "But you're staying in the car."

"Nope," Root replies simply, and it's settled. Rolling her eyes, Shaw turns back to John and Harold. John wears an amused smirk that Shaw wants to smack off his face, but she refrains. Harold's eyes flicker to Root, then as far away as physically possible.

Gaze shifting to the left, she sees Root from the corner of her eye, already undressing. Root looks over her shoulder, catches Shaw's stare, and winks.

Face growing hot and cheeks mere seconds away from turning scarlet, Shaw shoves her gun into her waistline.

"Get out," Shaw barks at John and Harold, shooing them through the door.

"Problem, Shaw?" John asks, but she ignores him, steam beginning to rise from her ears. She follows him through the door, eyes glued to the back of his suit. "What?" he continues to goad. "You're not staying in there?"

"Why would I?" she spits.

"She's  _injured_ ," John replies, loud enough for Root to hear. "She might  _need some help with that_."

"John's  _right_ ," Root calls from within the room, and Shaw can envision Root's smirk. "I  _could_  use a hand!"

Shaw slams the door behind her, heat spreading like wildfire and making her throat tight. John laughs, and she punches him in the shoulder.

"Hey, hey," he says defensively, trying to smother his laughter as he puts up his hands.

She narrows her eyes, turning smartly on her heel and simmering down the hall.

"I'll start the car."

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

  
**[Monitoring Asset: Lionel Fusco...**

**> 8th Precinct, Manhattan NY**

**> > 8th Precinct Security Cameras**

**> > 10:03, 10/19/2018**

**...Locating Threats]**

John bursts through the front door of the precinct, shoving Shaw forward amidst her violent struggles of escape. Her hands are cuffed behind her, key held in her closed fist. He slams her down on the nearest desk, her temple smacking against the hard wood.

"Mind toning it back," she hisses, and his eyes flash with a silent apology.

"Woah, woah, what is this?" an officer demands, stalking toward John. Seeing his face, he stops. "Detective Riley?"

John's fingers tighten around Shaw's lower arms. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. It had been a long time since he had a life of his own.

John nods.

"I thought they said you went deep undercover?"

"I resurfaced. Needed the air."

"Can you just pick when--"

"Is Detective Fusco here?" John interrupts, eyes scanning the vicinity. "I need to have a word with my partner."

The officer can't help his stare, entirely taken aback by John's brusque nature.

"Uh, yeah. Same desk."

Again, John nods.

Peeling Shaw from the desk, he pushes her toward the back of the precinct. She struggles once more, throwing her head back. It cracks John in the jaw, and he shuts his eyes.

"Seems I'm not the only one getting into the part," John mutters near her ear, rolling out his jaw.

"Call it repaying the favor." She hurls herself to the left, nearly throwing John over a table stacked high in paperwork. John grunts with the strain of reeling her back in.

"You need some help, Riley?" the officer asks warily, not quite wanting to be near Shaw.

"I think I got it," John replies, then stops. "There is one thing you can help with."

"Yeah?"

"Dr. Campbell in?" There's something in his voice that catches Shaw off guard, and she relinquishes her fight. "Our last conversation was... cut short." He laughs quietly, more pain than humor in the sound. "And after the time on the field, I think I need to be cleared anyway."

"Sorry," the officer says, shoulders dropping. "Campbell switched precincts. Hell, whole departments. She's working down in Jersey now, apparently that's where her fiancé lives."

"Got it," John says, a twinge of disappointment in his voice. He starts toward Fusco's desk once more.

"You leave someone waiting for you?" Shaw asks, not nearly as much play in her voice as she would have liked. Something in her knows that this isn't the time to poke the bear; rather, make sure he's okay.

He doesn't answer at first. She waits for him to start, but he doesn't. He doesn't answer at all.

"She special to you?" Shaw continues. He clears his throat.

"Just a friend," he says at last, but Shaw doesn't buy it. Stepping past an interrogation room, Fusco's wiry curls become visible past rows of filing cabinets. He doesn't look up as they approach.

"You should be more aware of your surroundings, Lionel," John greets, and Fusco snaps his attention away from his computer.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he demands, taking off his readers as his eyes dart between the two of them, mouth agape. "You know where you are, don't you?"

"We're at the precinct," John responds coolly. "Where I  _work_." Fusco rolls his eyes, sitting back in his chair.

"Not this again," he laments. "I was just getting used to actually getting my work done."

"You can cry about it on the way to your new apartment," Shaw mutters, fingers toying with the key. She fits it into the lock.

"New apartment? Who says I'm moving?"

"We do," she shoots back, dropping the hand cuffs on his desk. "You'll be taking some time off of work, which should give you plenty of time to get situated."

"Oh, so now you tell me how to spend my vacation too?" he retorts. His eyes turn to John. "What's this about?"

"Your number's up."

"You serious?"

"Wouldn't be here if I wasn’t."

Fusco's face drops, realization settling in. The slight trill of a phone call starts in Shaw's ear, and she swipes her earwig on.

"Need some help in there, Honey?" Root's melodic voice greets. Shaw shifts, eyes scanning the precinct for any flashes of brown curls.

"We've got it under control," Shaw responds between clenched teeth. "Just keep an eye on things with Harold."

"Whatever you say," Root responds, but Shaw has a feeling she's not planning on being so compliant.

"Come on," Shaw says to John. " _Someone_  outside is getting a little antsy."

"What about Lee?" Fusco asks, worry thick in his voice. "They gonna come after him?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," Root says.

"Shouldn't be a problem," Shaw tells Fusco. He gives her an odd look.

"Michigan State just gave him a full ride for hockey," Root continues.

"Michigan State just--"

"There a reason you're repeating her?" Fusco asks, and Shaw raises a brow. "This some sort of pissing contest I don't know about?"

John shrugs, and Shaw turns to see Root leaning against John's old desk, wild gleam in her eyes. Shaw's gaze sears into her skin, and she snaps the earwig off. Shaw's eyes remain on Root's, demanding an explanation as to why she's here. Root flips her hair over her shoulder, unfolding her arms as she steps toward the trio.

"He leaves tonight, he'll call you about it later, but right now, we need to go."

The power to the building cuts, murmurs of confusion erupting around the precinct.

"That's our cue."

Root starts back for the entrance, all in tow as they pass by other detectives without question. They get just before the front door when Root stops, eyes distant as she listens to something no one else can hear.

"We're too late."

"What do you mean, too late?" Shaw asks, hand grazing her gun. "Are they here?"

"Get Harold on the phone," Root instructs John. "Tell him to get a car ready. And take Fusco to the evidence lock-up."

John complies, pulling Fusco by the collar as he dials his phone. Root loops her arm around Shaw's tugging her out of view from the precinct's glass doors.

"There another exit we can use?" Shaw asks, letting Root tug her along.

"None that they won't be watching," Root replies, grabbing the fire alarm and pulling down. Immediately, a bell sounds, sprinklers raining down.

"Everybody out!" an officer cries, and people push past them in pursuit of the exits. Amidst the leaving swarm, a few people in suits force themselves against the current, walking into the precinct with prying eyes. Root and Shaw maneuver back through the maze of desks and filing cabinets, Root ducking them behind Fusco's desk.

Shaw takes stock of everything around them, searching for the best leverage.

"Wrong desk," Shaw says under her breath, and before Root has time to ask, she's pulling them both to John's old work space.

"Never knew you were this picky," Root coos, somehow making what would otherwise be an insult sound like the most endearing compliment.

"Precinct bottlenecks through those glass dividers," Shaw whispers. "We can pick them off from here." The first agent finds her way through the maze, starting toward them. Shaw kneels, aiming her firearm.

"We got interrupted back at the apartment," Root says, catching Shaw off guard. She positions herself just behind Shaw, one of her guns on either side of Shaw's shoulders. She exceedingly close, nearly brushing up against Shaw. "You were about to say something."

"You really think  _now_  is the best time for this?" Shaw asks. Root laughs quietly, the sound right at Shaw's ear. She presses her lips together tight, trying to remain focused on the mission.

"We both know I've never had good timing."

A second agent follows up the first, and Root shifts her left gun, following him. Shaw keeps her eyes locked on the first, ignoring the water that runs down her face and into her eyes.

"She said you knew I don't feel things... the way other people do."

Into the funnel, the woman gestures for the man to come forward. Shaw takes her shot, watching the woman drop. The man swings his gun to her, only to be taken down by Root.

"It's not like you were hiding that," Root laughs, standing as the other agents rush them. One shoots out the glass divider, opening the playing field. Shaw starts after Root, ducking and weaving between gunshots and desks. They return fire, picking their way toward the evidence room.

"She said you thought that was what made me beautiful."

Root stops, eyes turning to Shaw, guns raised but not firing. She looks as if she's been caught in headlights, unsure which way to run. Shaw considers stopping, leaving it at that and hoping they never circle back to it.  _It'll only be worse in the long run_ , Shaw sighs, shooting another operative.

"And if I was a shape, I'd be an arrow. Any idea why She said that?"

Another shot. Root remains frozen, eyes flickering with thought. Then, a bullet whizzing by a hair too close, she snaps back to action, taking out the operative and yanking open a nearby door. Shaw dashes in, firing off a few more rounds for good measure, and Root locks it behind them. Flicking on the light, Shaw is greeted with an interrogation room.

Root's eyes land on Shaw briefly, thoughts still swirling behind them, and she climbs on the table, working at a vent.

"Root?"

"We don't have much time."

"You're the one who wanted to talk about it."

Root sighs, looking to Shaw. Extending a hand, she helps Shaw onto the table, and the two begin prying at the screws.

"The arrow's metaphysical."

"I know  _what_  it means. I'm asking  _why_."

From outside the room, Shaw hears muffled voices asking each other where they went, and if anyone has eyes on the detective.  _John better be good at hiding_ , Shaw thinks to herself, pocket knife doing little to wedge the vent free.  _Because I have the feeling we're behind schedule._

Shaw works at the vent, but feeling Root's eyes slowly burning holes into her cheek, she looks to her.

Root wears a face full of things to say, but lacks the words to say them. Her mouth makes small motions, lips pressing together just to come apart microscopically, then do it all over again. She gets the first screw out, and begins on her second.

"When we were in the stock exchange," Root begins, seemingly on tangent. "The Machine went through simulation after simulation to find the best outcome for us."

"She did a good job."

"She did the best job She could with what little time we had," Root corrects. Sighs. "After we'd gotten out, I wanted to go back for you. I couldn't. But She told me something; that in every simulation She ran, I had a moment. I could either ask for help, or talk with you." Root looks away, a sad smile on her face as she tries to pick through the tangled web in her mind. Doors around them are kicked in one by one, operatives yelling  _'clear!_ ' as they search each.

"For the Machine to run the most realistic simulations possible, She has to know us. Better than anyone. Better than ourselves," Root continues. The vent gives ever so slightly in their hands, and they continue yanking. "She told me that, in every simulation, She couldn't find one conceivable variation where I would ask you for help. I always took that time to tell you how I felt." She licks her lips in thought, then presses them together. Her eyes trail away, focusing out on something Shaw can't see. "It's nice to know She did it for me when we realized I wouldn't have the chance."

A foot connects heavily with their door, rattling Shaw's teeth. The handle jiggles.

"Over here!" an operative shouts.  _We're running out of time_. Then, something clicks in Shaw's mind.  _When we realized I wouldn't have the chance?_

"What do you mean,  _we_ realized? Who's  _we_?"

"Me and Her," Root answers, the vent only hanging by one last screw. "We knew something would happen, just not when."

"You knew?" Shaw asks, disbelieving.  _She couldn't have known and not told me._ "Your number?"

"She said it was supposed to be Harold's number. He was in hot water."

"We  _all_  were," Shaw spits back, voice raising an octave. "But we're a  _team_. Handling the numbers is what we do."

Root shakes her head. Commotion around the door mounts.

"When She realized I wasn't going to leave Harold, She knew it wasn't going to be him that was in danger."

"Then why'd you go that day without backup?"

"Like I said, Sweetie," Root says with a grunt, the vent falling away. "We knew something  _would_ , just not  _when_."

Guns fire from the adjacent room, littering the one-way glass with a spider web of fractures.

"Go," Shaw says, lacing her fingers and locking her arms. Root steps into her hands, pulling herself into the vents. Shaw jumps up after her, Root tugging her jacket as the glass shatters below. Root begins to crawl, eyes down as she looks into each room. Shaw keeps her eyes turned back, looking for any operatives who might climb in after them.

"Should be the third one down," Root murmurs to herself, still shimmying along the vents. Something sails through the open vent, clattering along the metal ducts.

"Cover your ears," Shaw barks, dropping to her chest and keeping her hands over her ears. She closes her eyes.

_Bang!_

The stun grenade sends a shockwave of sound through the vents, deafening Shaw even with her ears covered. The duct gives, dropping them both to the room below.

Shaw slams to the ground, eyes flashing with light from the pain as her chest caves in. She can barely breathe, and her ears ring, muddying the world around her. Vision slightly distorted, she scans through the debris for Root.

_There_. A mop of brown hair motionless under cheap ceiling panels. Shaw staggers forward, balance thrown off as her ears struggle to right themselves.

"Root?" she calls, her words sounding like sludge as they leave her mouth. She blinks a few times, forcing the world back into focus. Begrudgingly, it complies.

A hand to Root's shoulder, she gives Root a shake. Root pulls her hands from her ears, looking around the room.  _The evidence room._

"Well, that's one way to make an entrance," Root groans, a smile flittering across her features nonetheless as she stumbles to a standing position.

"You should have told me you were in trouble," Shaw says, picking up their previous conversation. She can't seem to let the idea of Root's brush with death go. _And for damn good reason._

"If you'd known, you would have tried to stop it."

"Of course I would," Shaw says, not quite getting what's wrong with that. "And if  _you_  weren't going to say something,  _She_  should have told us."

"I didn't want her to."

Silence. Root continues picking through the room, eyes scanning for John. Anger mounting, Shaw grabs Root's arm, spinning her back around.

"You didn't  _want_  her to?" Shaw echoes, voice deadly. Root tries to shrug her off, but Shaw holds tight.

"You would've chose saving me over the Machine."

"Yeah," Shaw agrees, irritated to the point of bursting. "Astute observation."

"I couldn't let you--  _any_  of you-- make that choice." Root slips through Shaw's fingers and maneuvers through the room, but Shaw doesn't move.

"So that's just it, then?" Shaw calls after her. Seeing that Root is in no mood for stopping, Shaw starts after her. "Die for the cause because what the hell does it matter to anyone else?"

"We're all just noise in the system," Root counters. "Infinite shapes until our finiteness catches up to us. It doesn't matter when we live or die, just that we did."

"It matters to me."

Shaw's words are quiet, barely carrying, but they reach Root with the force of a freight train. She doesn't know how to respond, but even if she did, she doesn't have time to.

"You two okay?" John asks, lowering his weapon upon seeing them. His hair is matted to his face, suit dripping. Fusco isn't in much better shape.

"Fine," Shaw answers neutrally, but Root can hear the anger still swimming below the surface.

"The hell is wrong with you people?" Fusco asks, throwing his hands up about him. "First the water, now the ceiling? We'll be lucky if any of this evidence survives."

"I don't think destroyed evidence is your biggest concern right now," John replies, and Fusco's eyes narrow. He turns to Root. "Do you know how many of them there are?"

"Too many," she responds. Listens. "And the longer we stand here, the closer their backup is getting. We need to move."

They do so, all falling in line around Fusco with weapons drawn. John kicks through the door, gunfire littering the air the second he does. They duck, returning as best they can while dashing for the doors. Stashing their weapons, they burst through the front doors, looking like the last stragglers out of the building. They slip into the crowd of officers and civilians clustered around the entrance, asking what happened, where all the banging came from, and when the fire department will arrive.

Pushing to the back of the heavy crowd, they see Harold idling across the street, eyes searching nervously. Spotting them, some of their tension disipates.

"Take Fusco," Root says to John. "Lay low until we get back."

"What are you two going to do?" he asks, ushering Fusco across the street. John stays behind.

"Distract them long enough to keep them off your trail."

John looks to the car, then back to Root.

"I'm staying."

Root gives him a look.

"Harold can't defend Lionel on his own, let alone himself. They  _need_  you."

"Fusco can handle it," John says. He searches her eyes. "After everything that happened in that facility, I  _need_  to be here. Same reason that you need to."

Their eyes mirror each other's, a silent understanding between them. Root nods, then waves Harold on. He drives off with Fusco just as the first Samaritan operatives begin to emerge from the precinct.

"Think you can steal us a squad car?" she asks him, and he smiles.

"Do you really have to ask?"

"Meet us at the corner on Clarkson St.," Root instructs, and he disappears within the crowd, using the cover to sneak around to the garage. Root lifts her head a little higher, catching an operative's eye. They lock stares. The hunt begins.

"Come on," Root says, turning away from the agents and starting toward a nearby alley. "She says this is the best way to cut through."

Shaw doesn't respond; instead, she surges ahead, anger brewing dark storm clouds over her head. Root shuts her eyes tight, then starts forward, trying to catch up.

"Listen," Root says, unsure what she's going to say, but knowing she needs to say something. "I get that you're upset, but I had to do what I did."

Still, Shaw doesn't respond. She continues.

"Even if not to save the Machine, I had to do it for everyone else. For the people I care about."

Shaw turns, and a glimmer of hope lights Root's face, perhaps getting through to her. Instead, Shaw raises her firearm, shooting past her and hitting an agent. Almost as quickly as she faced Root, she faces away, continuing down the alley. Root's exasperation mounts, and her nose flares, eyes hardening.

"Out of  _all_  people," Root calls to Shaw with an audacity unparalleled, "I would think you could understand that sacrifice."

Shaw stops, but Root's on a roll, plowing toward Shaw with full force. The Machine intones a warning, and Root shoots behind her, hitting two operatives without looking. Her sights are set on Shaw. Shaw ducks behind a dumpster at the end of the alley, and Root joins her.

"Knowing that the people closest to you wouldn't want you to, but doing it anyway. Doing it for  _them_."

Finally, Shaw looks at Root. She wants to spit something biting back. Something that will sting Root to the core, so maybe-- just maybe-- Root can feel what Shaw's feeling. Feel the hurt. The hurt that comes with losing someone so close for so long, with all hope of finding her nearly extinguished.

_But she has felt that-- she knows first hand._

Shaw looks Root over, blocking out the Samaritan operatives. Blocking out the rest of the world. She takes in every feature of Root, from her limp strands of drenched hair to her clothes soaked through-and-through. She sees Root's face, the edge of white gauze poking out behind one ear reminding her of the Hell Root's been through. She watches Root's eyes, and the way they swirl with galaxies so familiar to Shaw, yet so foreign at the same time. She knows Root has a long way to go before she's recovered from everything; and even still, she may never be quite the same.  _But she's still Root_. Despite all that's happened to her, and despite all of Root's choices that Shaw still needs to come to terms with, she cares about Root.  _This Root, right here, right now_ , and she realizes that  _that_ , above all the other shit swirling over their heads, is the only thing that matters.

Instead of shooting back a biting remark, Shaw doesn't say anything. She brings her hands to Root's face, pulling her in. She presses Root's lips to hers, and everything disappears. Every danger, every thought, every shape vanishes-- and for a minute, a symphony emerges in Shaw's ears through the white noise of the system.

She kisses Root harder, losing herself in the moment as Root's hands find Shaw's face. The touch is electric, sending shockwaves through Shaw's body as her fingers slide through Root's hair, then hold tight. She forgets where they are, why they are, and when. For now, frozen in space, they can trace infinitely in time.

A horn honks.

At first, Shaw doesn't register it, but it grows as she's drawn back to reality. Gunfire reemerges around her, and she pulls away to see John shooting through the rolled down window of a hijacked squad car.

"Think you two can do this another time?" he yells out to them. Shaw's stuck, unsure how to react with being seen, but Root's smile says it all. Pushing up from the ground, the two join John in the fire fight, crashing into the back seat of the car and barely closing the door before he pulls away. Regardless of the danger surrounding them, Shaw can't help the hint of a smile that tugs at her lips.

_It's good to be back in business._

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, Soft Boot is complete! Thank you guys so much for bearing with me, and for all of your wonderful comments on this fic. It means the world to me and really made me want to finish the parts as soon as possible. I really hope you guys liked this, and again, thank you so much for reading!


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